I am [supposed to be] a writer

How I stumbled upon my career isn't interesting. Nor is the day-in, day-out word wrangling and clicks on the keyboard. You don't want to know about that. But, I thought I had to lay THIS out on my first post. You ought to know that I'm a writer...but I never said I was any good.


The cold days are finally coming in Portland, and I'm looking forward to it. Intensely. Summer is so decadent, with the skimpy clothes and the long daylight hours and the cold beers and tropical drinks and naughty flings. It sounds completely idiotic, but I'm usually bored of it all by September and am ready to hide myself under a fleece blanket in front of a fire. This year isn't really that different, in that I'm ready for a change of seasons. But my summer hookup has stuck around, which has complicated things. As a result, I'm not quite ready to give up the cold beers and tropical drinks because they quiet the voices of discontent and worry (fear?) in my head. Dirty martinis are a good fall drink though, so I suppose I can sub them in. But back to the summer fling. And his presence. I think the big problem is not that the Boy has stuck around, so much as it is that I have so little to think about. So I stew, and I worry and I fret and I wonder what I'm doing with someone who's younger than me, and who was probably still in high school when I was doing my first beer bong.

Portland is sapping my energy. It's an easy town to just EXIST in. It's all birkenstocks, granola and fresh (solar roasted!) coffee. Money? Incidental. I used to live in NYC. I used to work around the clock. I used to party around the clock. I had no time. Now, in Portland, h-o-m-e, I have no job. Just the Boy.

Every morning I wake up thinking that I'm going to do something that day. Sometimes I say it out loud. You know what I'm talking about. Something real instead of watching Charlie Rose in my sweats. Like, change the world real.

I'm wearing pink velour track pants right now.